


The Courage of Two

by WritingYay



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Celebrating Life, Death, Depressing, Descriptions of tumours, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fluff, Funeral, Grief, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Conditions, Sad, Some humour, Terminal Illnesses, Warnings ahead, Wedding, please be wary, please read the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 17:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingYay/pseuds/WritingYay
Summary: “You’re not just marrying me because I’m… you know, are you?”If abstract words could be a physical hit, Richard feels like he’s just been slapped round the face.He stares at the way Taron’s wringing his lower lip between his teeth and tapping the soft pads of his fingers against his thigh. For an awful moment, he assumes that Tarondoesn’t wantto get hitched, but ultimately the truth is the complete opposite.“Ya’ moron.” Richard barks through a sudden laugh. His head starts shaking out of its own accord, like a puppet on strings. “I’d a’married you the day I met you if I could’ve done.”





	The Courage of Two

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS AHEAD: This fic deals with terminal illness. It deals with death, and it deals with legacy. The illness is question is lung cancer. If any of these things are triggering to you, PLEASE proceed with the upmost care. I would hate for anyone to read this without being fully aware of the topic and be distressed. You have been noted, so please do what is personally best for you and don’t read if you are concerned about the effect it could have on your wellbeing. If you are struggling with a personal cancer diagnosis, I wish you the upmost hope and love. You will remain in my thoughts and I pray strongly for a positive outcome. Struggling with close-family diagnoses myself, I know what it is like to have to go through that.
> 
> I just wanna say that this was inspired by a brilliant Teen Wolf fic I read a few years ago. Unfortunately, I can no longer find this fic to give credit to, but it’s the right thing to do for me to acknowledge that amazing writer as their work gave me inspiration for some of the tropes you read here.
> 
> I hope you have a good day. All love x

Taron looks down at his phone, sees who’s calling him at this ungodly hour and frowns.

“Hey.” He says tiredly, and pulls the blanket covering his knees further up his thighs. “Watcha’ need?”

Richard clears his throat before he answers, and his voice sounds husky with sleep. “Your appointment is at nine tomorrow, right?”

Taron nods, even though his boyfriend can’t see him. The mere mention of tomorrow’s events sends an icy shiver of anxiety bubbling over his skin in tiny goosebumps. His blanket seems futile, even though it’s thick and woollen with Cumbrian sheep wool. More importantly, it smells like Richard’s aftershave. “Uh huh.”

“Great.” Comes the reply. There’s a stifled yawn. “Sorry, I was just about to go to sleep and I panicked because I couldn’t be sure t’was nine or ten.”

“That’s okay. You didn’t wake me.” Taron flicks his eyes up to the old-fashioned camcorder he’s rested on a tripod and smiles at it in spite of himself. 

“You okay?” Richard sounds concerned and Taron sighs.

“O’course. I’ll see you at half-past?”

“Yep.”

Taron falls silent, and digests his boyfriend’s gravelly tones with the distinctive Scottish brogue sending accents spinning off of every vowel. “Hey, I love you.”

“Love ya’, T. Goodnight.” Richard’s words were brimming with a wide grin that couldn’t be seen, obviously, but was deafeningly loud. 

“Night.”

Taron ends the call and reaches forward to fiddle with the camcorder. It comes away from the tripod easily enough and he sits there for a while feeling the weight of it in his hands. He wonders how much fun it could be to both him and Richard, and questions wholeheartedly why they hadn’t started documenting their relationship in the first place.

It was more than late by now, and Taron’s body was yelling at him to get some sleep. The King-sized bed was painfully empty and Taron dreaded having to snuggle up in it alone. Richard had been doing PR shit all day yesterday for some new BBC One episodic drama he’d been roped into by Jamie and had thought it would be easier to just stay over in Liverpool for the night instead of traipsing back to London. Taron had agreed with a throwaway remark at the time, but now the thought of sleep was unconvincing as his mind was firmly commandeered by needless worrying over tomorrow. All he wanted was his boyfriend in their bed, curled around his back like a cat. 

Taron sighs and slips under the duvet. He shivers, because November in England was stupidly cold and the central heating in their house was not good enough for the extortionate rent. The night before any of his appointments was always rocked by fleeting sleep, but tonight seemed especially hard. 

He’s slipping his trainers on the following morning when a loud beep reverberates from outside. When he closes the front door behind himself, Richard’s hanging out of the window of his Aston Martin with a lazy grin.

“Morning.” Richard says as Taron slips into the passenger seat and passes him a takeaway cup of tea. 

“Alright?” Taron leans across the gearstick for a kiss before patting the side of Richard’s face in condolence. “Sorry, you must be so tired?”

His boyfriend yawns, his god-carved cheekbones bowing upwards obscenely. “Y’worth it.”

Taron rolls his eyes and pulls his sunglasses down from his head to protect himself against the harsh early winter sunshine. “Melt.”

Richard winks at him cheekily and the clenching anxiety ravaging Taron’s ribs dissipates slightly.

The University College Hospital carpark is rammed when Richard swings the car through the entrance and Taron whistles aloud. They manage to find a space quite close to the front as a huge Ranger Rover filled with a young family vacates for them rather swiftly on their third circuit of the plot. On the short amble to the automatic doors, Richard slips his hand into Taron’s and gives him a small, encouraging smile that he tries his upmost best to recreate. 

Dr Gillies is already waiting for them by the reception when they walk through the doors. She hugs them both and leads them away through some double doors and to the right of the Macmillan Cancer Centre to her office. The tension between them is somewhat dispelled by the professional’s incessant babbling about upcoming snowstorms, and Richard raises his eyebrows suggestively at Taron when they finally sit down. Taron kicks him under the desk, making Richard yelp.

A raucous knock at the door makes the couple jump. They turn to find a curvaceous brunette lady standing awkwardly in the frame.

“Lola, this is Richard Madden and this is Taron Egerton.” Dr Gillies introduces them to her with a careful nod. Her palm is slick when Taron grasps her handshake politely. “Gentlemen, this is Lola, she’s one of our fantastic Macmillan nurses.”

It wasn’t unusual for a cancer nurse to sit in on Taron’s appointments, but the wary darting of Lola’s gaze combined with the sudden waffling of the normally-impassive doctor was causing a tidal wave of concern to drown his organs. Richard immediately notices his change in body language and subtly places his hand on his boyfriend’s knee to squeeze.

Eventually, Dr Gillies retrieves the correct paperwork from her file drawer and lowers herself into her chair gingerly. 

“I haven’t seen you for what, six weeks? How have you been?”

Taron shrugs and pulls his hoodie sleeves to his knuckles. “Oh, you know… cancerous.”

The light joke falls utterly flat. Dr Gillies looks taken aback and Richard purses his lips together, the tight grip he has on his knee increasing in warning.

“You have a diagnosis of lung cancer?” Lola interrupts, the South African twang in her dialect growing more prominent. Taron nods shortly.

“Yep, neuroendocrine tumours. It was- they found it too late. They diagnosed me as an advanced stage because the fuckin’ thing had already ravaged my lymph nodes. They said it was regional spread and that removing the tumours wouldn’t be the best option as-”

“It’s not something that’s often done when it poses a greater risk to life.” Dr Gillies fills in. Lola makes a quiet noise of agreement.

“No.” Taron says.

“So uh-” Dr Gillies puts on her glasses to scan the document in front of her. Tight crevices fan out across her face in pinched pleats of concern. “We’re here today to discuss the results of the CT scan you had around two weeks ago.”

Richard clears his throat. “It’s a routine procedure for someone in Taron’s situation.”

“It’s a monitoring measure.” Lola says and smooths the lapels of her uniform down against her skin. Dr Gillies doesn’t say anything.

“Why do I get the feeling the results aren’t great?” Taron mutters. Richard immediately sends him a look of worry.

“Oi,” his boyfriend nudges him lightly in the ribs. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“She hasn’t yet told us that it’s good news.” Taron points out and doesn’t take his eyes off the twitching vibration to Dr Gillies’ skin. The doctor lifts her gaze from the paper and shakes her head minutely.

“Taron…” she stops herself and takes a huge breath. Taron _knows_ that tone of voice. That’s a tone he’s heard before, when he was first diagnosed. “I’m so sorry. It’s not good. The CT has shown us that the cancer has spread to your liver.”

He freezes. A numb veil covers his body and he suddenly can’t feel his legs. Richard leans forward to smack his forehead against his palm and swears loudly.

It was like the room had stopped. The clock stops ticking, the hustle and bustle in the corridors instantly silences and all Taron can hear is the rapid thumping of his pulse. Out of instinct, he places his hand over Richard’s and lets out a shuddering breath when Richard turns his palm over to lace their fingers together.

“So the chemotherapy didn’t work?”

Dr Gillies’ shoulders fall. She affirms the negative and Taron wants to scream. He wants to bellow to the high heavens how _fucking unfair his life is_ but most of all he just wants to lock himself away with his boyfriend and their cat and pretend that none of this shit is happening.

“Fuck.” Is all that seems appropriate.

“It’s not a coincidence that cancer and cruelty start with the same letter.” Lola nods, pity igniting her facial features. 

“What’s next?” Richard demands with a sense of urgency he hadn’t used before. “Next treatment, I mean.”

“It’s what we now call a metastatic NET. That means that the cancer has spread to other main organs and there’s a high chance it could keep going… your brain, for example, is at risk. It pains me to have to tell you that there’s a low chance of survival, but I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t do that.” Dr Gillies says slowly, slipping her glasses off her face to twirl them in her fingers. Taron forces himself to nod, even though her words aren’t really registering.

“My deepest condolences, Taron.” Lola passes him a box of tissues from the desk and he takes one politely. He doesn’t have the energy to cry right now. He doesn’t really know what’s happening. “As you know from your initial diagnosis, the charity is here to help you in any way we can. Even if that help is support from the end of the phone, we can do that. You’re not alone.”

Taron glances at her and gestures with his eyes that he’s heard her.

“What happens now?” Richard asks softly. Dr Gillies turns to Taron with the beginnings of an explanation, but one study of the man’s shattered expression causes her to think twice.

“It’s up to him.”

“I don’t want any more chemotherapy.” Taron murmurs, and Richard stops dead. Even Lola seems shocked as she blinks at him owlishly. “If it’s spread to my liver, it’s gonna keep going, right? I don’t want to put my body through more treatment that probably won’t work. You just said there’s a low chance of survival? That sounds like a pretty terminal diagnosis to me.”

Dr Gillies taps her fingernails against the paper. “I would strongly advise that we explore other treatment avenues, like last-minute surgery, but it’s ultimately your decision. I obviously don’t want you to give up fighting but-”

“I’m not giving up.” Taron says firmly. “I’m accepting the inevitable.”

Dr Gillies snaps her mouth shut. Richard turns to face Taron and gently brushes his knuckles down his boyfriend’s arm.

“Please don’t make any rash decisions.” He mutters under his breath.

Taron just slaps on his professional façade, the one that apparently oozes confidence, and squares his shoulders. “The inevitable, Richard. You know I’m not one to bury my head in the sand.”

Richard regards him for a long pause and seemingly looks straight past the bullshit bravery. Inside, Taron is a collapsing skeleton of lost hope and crippling isolation. It’s going to take more than six rounds of chemo to repair that state. Dr Gillies launches into her legal drawl about further appointments, hospice plans and support centres. Taron cowers into his selected-hearing setting and nods along obediently when she stops to take a breath. The words don’t register. All he can focus on is the deafening rage of white noise, static, behind his eyes.

The entire journey back to the house is horrifically tense. Richard takes out his anger on no less than four other motorists; it was rush-hour and the streets of London seemed determined to keep them in the same suffocating space for as long as possible. Richard abandons the car in the driveway and Taron stalks ahead to open up with his key trembling between his fingers. 

“Are we gonna talk about this?” Richard asks as he kicks the door shut behind him. Taron leans his elbows on the kitchen counter and buries his face in his hands. It takes him a few breaths to be sure that his voice box wasn’t about to catapult out of his throat.

“I really don’t know what you want me to say, Richard.” He replies hoarsely. Now, the dawn sun had disappeared and outside it was suitably an overcast of raw white. Taron wonders if he’ll still be here to see next year’s summer and the sheer uncertainty of the situation makes him whimper against his wrists. There’s a choked sigh, and suddenly Richard’s drawing him up to his chest. Taron presses himself as close as possible into his saviour’s arms and shudders into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” Richard whispers against his temple, his hands circling Taron’s back from the base of his spine all the way up to his neck. His own angry tears pool at Taron’s collarbones but he feels too numb to register the warmth. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, mate. Shush, T, I know.”

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

Richard clenches his eyes shut behind the heat and inwardly screams _FUCK_ over and over again. Like a jackhammer, his heart was beating out of his chest. The steady thrum of the traffic outside was louder than normal, like the Earth was trying to remind them that life continued even when theirs didn’t.

“Don’t want you to go.”

Taron twists his fingers into the material gathered at his boyfriend’s back to ground himself in the present. “S’m cheap-ass _Fault in Our Stars_ shit right here.”

Richard snorts, the sudden action grating at his sinuses. “I’m not the one who’s just been told they’re dying, pal.”

He waits for a horrible moment as Taron stiffens against his chest. The younger man pulls back out of the hold to carefully lay a hand over Richard’s sternum, right where his heart is slowly shattering into doomed fragments. “Yeah you are.” He says carefully, and fuck if that isn’t the most painful home-truth Richard has heard in a while.

All he can do is gently rest their foreheads together and stare into Taron’s lost eyes, desperately trying to remind himself that he’s the one who has to stay strong.

-

“What the actual fuck?”

Taron’s mouth opens and closes dumbly like a member of _Geordie Shore_. There aren’t many other public positions that could make Richard Madden- the owner of Britain’s best loved backside- feel incredibly insecure. 

Being down on one knee in the middle of Abbey Road with outstretched arms and a dopey yet transfixed smile is certainly up there.

“I love ya’ to bits, but if you could possibly hurry up with an answer that would be grand. My sodding knee is killing.”

Taron erupts into full-body laughter, and it takes a few seconds for, “yes I’ll marry you, you soppy gimp” to be heard. Richard eases himself off the ground with a blinding Hollywood smile to accommodate for the numerous phones being pointed in their faces from friends and family. Elton whistles piercingly, an ecstatic smile perched on his hollering face. When Richard gets his arms around his _fiancé_ , he gives Taron one of his rare Madden grins, all dimples and smile lines galore. Taron just rolls his eyes, too clever to miss the sphere change, and brushes his hand along Richard’s jaw.

“Oh my days.” Tina starts to fan herself with some trashy magazine she’d picked up on the way over. “I can’t believe my baby is getting married.”

“Oh Mother-” Taron starts, sarcastic tone and all. One wink from Richard causes him to fall into picturesque severity. “Thank you.”

“It will be something to look forward to, anyhow.” Taron’s Dad, David, pipes up and passes round champagne flutes that have suddenly appeared. Richard would put their house on it being down to Elton- his cheeky smirk is too big to miss.

“I would’ve proposed even without the diagnosis.” Richard assures them, but mostly Taron. The thought hadn’t even seemed to pass the other man’s mind. He flashes Richard a wide grin and the engagement band sparkles under the LED bulbs when he tips his glass up to sip from. “It’s been on my mind for ages, and I decided that his recent health changes wouldn’t stop us from doing all the things we talked ‘bout.”

Tina coos like the perfect mother-hen she is and bundles her son up into her arms.

“How are you feeling?” She can’t help but cover Taron’s forehead with the back of her hand, like Taron’s health can be magically rectified with that one simple motion. 

“Tired, Mum.” He replies truthfully and his heart breaks a little bit at the maternal worry etched into her features. “Really bloody exhausted.”

Tina nods and exhales sharply through her nose. “I know, love. Being ill does that to a person."

“I’m tired of feeling tired, more than anything.” He shrugs. His Mum bites her lip and shifts her weight to her left side, closer to her child.

“I just feel so hopeless. I wish there was more I could do and make it all go away.”

“Yeah.” Taron murmurs and flits his eyes to his smiling future-husband with a sad smile. “Me too.”

They stand there swaying for a moment, with Tina buried under Taron’s arm like a bodyguard. She sniffs and pats his stomach gently. “Gonna need to get you a tailored suit quickly.”

Weight-loss was scarily real with the tumours he had, and the years of chemo hadn’t helped matters. There was no denying that he was a gaunt and hollow figure of his _Kingsman_ days, but the wasting didn’t bother him. He was still alive and he was marrying his best friend. Who cared if his suit would hang a little baggy over his shoulders? Nobody would make a comment if his trousers didn’t cling to his thighs like normal. Taron didn’t give a fuck. Richard certainly didn’t.

With Tina involved in the planning process and a sort-of deadline, the big day creeps up after only a couple of months. It wasn’t a traditional wedding, as such. It was more of a huge drunken party with cake and posh vol-au-vents. Let it be known that the classy side to the celebrations was completely Taron’s doing. Richard would’ve been happy with a few bags of crisps and a piss-up, but one disappointed glare from both Tina and Taron at that suggestion shuts him up. All he wanted to do was marry the man. That was the most important part.

“Hi.” Richard knocks on the door of the small side room that Taron occupied. His Mum opens the door with an excited grin and excuses herself to join the rest of the guests. “You ready?” 

He looks so nervous when he turns around. But it’s not your bog-standard wedding jitters, it’s insecurity on a global scale. His eyes gleam with it, those weird-ass facial windows that look mechanical in some lights and ice blue in others. Close up, Taron blinks through hazel eyes that border on cognac. 

“You’re not just marrying me because I’m… you know, are you?”

If abstract words could be a physical hit, Richard feels like he’s just been slapped round the face. 

He stares at the way Taron’s wringing his lower lip between his teeth and tapping the soft pads of his fingers against his thigh. For an awful moment, he assumes that Taron _doesn’t want_ to get hitched, but ultimately the truth is the complete opposite. 

“Ya’ moron.” Richard barks through a sudden laugh. His head starts shaking out of its own accord, like a puppet on strings. “I’d a’married you the day I met you if I could’ve done.”

Taron’s face lights back up like a carnival. Richard opens his arms and huffs when Taron falls into them like deadweight. 

“What’s brought this on?” He asks. Taron shrugs against the side of his head. “Do you not remember what I said when I proposed? I would’ve done it anyway; terminal cancer diagnosis or no terminal cancer diagnosis.”

“I know.” The reply is brief and Richard chooses not to read into it. 

“You look gorgeous.” 

Taron scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Not a bride.”

Richard cranes his head back to wink at him. “Yuh-huh, ya’ my bride.”

“Jesus Christ.” Taron mutters in amusement, and holds the door open for them to disappear through.

They both cry over their vows. In fact, there’s not a dry eye in the house. Elton full on sobs from his place right at the front, next to Taron’s family. 

Taron’s diagnosis isn’t mentioned throughout the whole ceremony. Everyone attending knew he was really ill, sure, but the day turns out to be perfectly executed with a demanding sense of normality that Taron was eternally grateful for.

Until the first dance. 

“I hope I go tonight.” Taron murmurs sleepily against Richard’s shoulder as everyone stands round ahhing at their first display as a married couple. The words shake Richard to the core as he stumbles over his own foot, swears, and fixes Taron with a horrified stare.

“Exfuckingscuse me?” Garbled, like desperation.

“No.” Taron waves his hand around the dispel the panic. “As in, I’m so happy right now that if I died tonight, I’d be going in a good headspace.”

“That’s morbid as fuck, T.” Richard says blatantly. 

“Yeah I know I just-” he trails off and casts his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry. Not the right time to be thinking about it.”

Richard steels himself and lifts Taron’s chin up with his index finger. “No, I’m sorry. You should be able to say whatever you want, whenever you want. This ain’t about me.”

His husband ( _oh hell fucking yeah_ ) sighs restlessly. “You’re a bastard, Madden. You’ve put a value on my life and right now it’s a currency I don’t know how to spend.”

And that- well, what on earth is the right reply to that?

Richard settles for snorting loudly and kissing the other man in full show to shut him up. “Fuck me.”

“I’m being serious,” Taron says but he’s laughing too. “Thank you.”

The song finishes and suddenly they’re catapulted backwards by a tidal wave of whooping adults with ammunition of alcohol, and all Richard can do is squeal happily and hold on to Taron as tight as he can.

-

Taron’s room in the hospice is medically white in every way. The sheets are a harsh white, the machines are white, the tiled floor is an off-grey that clearly used to be white.

Richard fucking hated the place. Not just because of what it meant, but because Taron was a skeletal pale figure sat in a white room in a white building with a white future. 

His vitals had been slowing since the previous evening. Every breath seemed to be hard bloody work judging by the forced wheeze that accompanied every beep of the heart monitor. Richard hadn’t left the room in days, neither had Tina. Only Taron’s father had been the one to drive home and get the necessary supplies to keep them all sane. His and Taron’s house hadn’t been touched in over a week. Richard knew he was never going to step through the door again with his husband and that was excruciating on an untold level.

The oxygen mask was making Taron sound like he was talking through a tunnel.

“I’m not gonna lie here and chat shit about how amazing you are cos’ it will just inflate your ego.” He rasps, his chest rising and falling shallowly. His lungs were hell-bent on stealing all the breath from him but Taron will be _damned_ if can’t say goodbye to the love of his fucking life. “And god knows Mum doesn’t need that now.”

Richard chuckles and it’s a pathetic wet noise that sounds more like a gasping cough than a display of strength. 

“It’s okay.”

“Yep.” Taron shuts his eyes through a painful shudder that releases hot tears from the corners of his eyes. “Peachy.”

Their joined hands lay clasped on the bed. Tina continues silently brushing her hand over her baby’s cheekbones and Richard tries not to look at the fracturing courage peeling from her expression.

“Bloody love you.” He whispers, and leans forward to kiss the back of his hand.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Taron replies after a short moment. “I’m fantastic, me.”

At precisely 10:41 pm, Richard Madden’s world stops turning.

Tina lets out a little gasp like it’s unexpected as people come rushing in. Richard sits there and slips his eyes closed in disbelief, the loudest sound in the room being the monotonal gunshot of flatlining.

-

On the morning of Taron’s funeral, Richard wakes up to blinding sunshine. He hasn’t slept for what seems like weeks. Nights are spent staring at the ceiling with his mind revving at a hundred miles an hour. In the daytime, his mind is numb. That’s understandable, according to the therapist that the Macmillan team offered him. He’s a nice person and he makes sense. Richard just wishes he could tell him how to get better.

Taron’s coffin is carried into the church to his own version of _I’m Still Standing_ from the film. The joke is heavily ironic, and Taron had grinned when he’d made that decision. A grin like that in such dark times, Richard couldn’t say no to. It seems to go down well with the attendees and Elton rolls his eyes fondly when the beginning chords fire up.

When Richard has to deliver the eulogy, he wants to climb into Taron’s casket as well. He takes a deep breath before offering the intimate crowd a wavering smile. “Thank you all for coming, firstly. Taron treated this a bit like a second wedding and sat there in hospital making spreadsheets of all the people he wanted to invite.” Richard begins and the congregation titters. Tina gives David a side-eye that Richard had seen Taron pull off more than once. “He came up with 300 names. I’m fairly sure he included the majority of every crew he’s ever worked with and I did remind him that he couldn’t remember fifty percent of people’s surnames but he was undeterred. It took a while, but eventually he came up with an intimate list of around half a page. You, are that half a page. You, sat here today, proved to be the most important people in Taron’s life.”

Elton shakes his head minutely at the ceiling. It looks like he’s exasperatedly reprimanding Taron for being such a soft sod and it hurts Richard’s heart. 

“When we got married, he turned to me an’ out of the blue said- ‘you bastard, you’ve put a value on my life and it’s a currency I don’t know how to spend’. Now, I’m positive he stole that from an episode of _Sherlock_ because I don’t really give a shit-” Jamie hides a smile behind his hand that Richard catches. On the set of _Rocketman_ that bloody show was the only thing the three of them ever watched and the memory is unwelcomingly raw but delightful. “-bout the poncy tone of the words, he always was a posh boy, but it’s the sentiment. Taron believed that I saved him by loving him. That’s shite. He saved me, by showing me what true strength and unconditional love is.”

He pauses and looks down at his speech. The words swim in front of his eyes, and without a second thought he folds it up and places it in his pocket. Taron had always been spontaneous.

“I thought long and hard about what I want to say about him. I wrote it all down. But I’ve just realised that no number of written sentences will even come close to how I felt about’m. Taron was the life and soul of any party. I first met him on the set of a film we had to play lovers in, and it was terrifying because the moment our first conversation ended I knew I was head over bloody heels for the man.”

Jamie nods at him knowingly; he was the secret confidant for both guys and eventually convinced them both to just fuck and get it over with. The rest was history.

“Taron was intimidatingly brave when he got the terminal diagnosis. He was adamant that he didn’t want to continue treatment an’ I thought he was moronic. Turns out, he was smarter than I gave him credit for. He lived out his days in the way he wanted to. He wanted to plan his funeral, he wanted to give all that money to charity, t-those decisions were all him. My husband was… no, _is_ strong-willed, courageous and loving. It is an honour to have called him mine.”

Richard flicks his eyes over to the flower-adorned coffin and reaches out to drag his fingers over the edges. Presence. 

They don’t have a wake. Instead, Richard sends the guests off to a nearby hotel with the promise of a free bar to get shitfaced in Taron’s memory. He feels incredibly sick and overwhelmingly tired. Tina and David decide to go and join the celebrations, even though it’s not allowed to be called a wake because _I’m not having everyone sat around in a conference room weeping into vodka while people tell shit stories about me, Richard, I’m making that fuckin’ clear right now_ , to raise a glass to their son. 

He’s just about to head home, knowing full well he’ll start crying if he goes to the hotel and he’s not entirely sure he’ll ever be able to stop, when Tina gently grabs him by the arm. She pulls him into a hug which is a little awkward with their height difference and sighs shakily into his neck. Richard clings onto her with bent knees and a craned spine and wishes with all his strength to be able to hug her son one more time. Then, she pulls back and wipes across his eyelids with the back of her thumb. They’d planned for this; they knew what was coming and they sat there with Taron in hospital as he chose between _Your Song_ and _I’m Still Standing_ for the procession. One last hurdle and then they could grieve. One more.

Tina presses a gentle kiss to his temple on her tiptoes and slides something into his suit pocket. Her lips move to mutter something in his ear and he frowns. With one last squeeze to his waist, she reaches out to be caught by her husband and they amble off down the street with the other guests.

Richard tentatively reaches into his pocket and feels the smooth curve of something round and flat. A few more pokes finds a sharp ridge to the circumference like a CD disc. If Taron’s compiled a montage of photos to be played at his funeral, the one that finished half an hour ago, Richard’s gonna kill him.

The house is foreboding when he parks the car outside. It looms up in layers of memories and when Richard opens the door, the sheer extent of pain the lack of Taron brings causes him to cry out in frustration. Death was real now. He’d watched as the other half of his heart had been lowered into the ground. Finality. End of chapter. End of journey.

Tina’s words echo clearly in his head.

_He made me promise that I would give this to you. I don’t know what’s on it, but you need to watch it. Please, love, for him._

Richard blows air out between his teeth and flits his focus up to the ceiling to steady himself. His skin was vibrating with an unreachable itch, like something was missing. Something _was_ missing, he reasons. Taron.

The disc whirs into the laptop with a foreboding clunk. Richard selects the necessary measures to play the media, and sits back as the screen goes dark. Out of nowhere, Taron fills the space like an angel. Night blacked out the windows behind him, and it was clear that he was sat in their room. It screamed normality even though their lives hadn’t been normal for years. Taron smiles at the camera and Richard can’t help but smile back. The smile cracks, and is more than forced, but it was just an immediate reaction to mirror the younger man. 

There he was, his warrior of a husband.

“So,” Alive-Taron begins, and rubs a hand over his face. His skin was puffy and slightly red; tell-tale signs of years of discomfort and fighting. Pain shone in his grey eyes like beads of exhaustion that were metal dull. “If you’re watching this, Richard Madden, then I’m no longer with you.”

All of the stability in Richard’s body falls out of him in one crash. He draws in a shaky breath and claps a hand to his mouth to dig his teeth into the smooth skin covering his wrist. Taron looked so nonchalant about the situation. How was he to know that the lack of his presence was the single worst thing that could ever happen to Richard?

Taron goes on to shrug at his own words, a picture of calm acknowledgment. His clothes were mused even though he clearly hadn’t slept and his graveyard of medication packets sat forgotten on his bedside table at the side of the frame. Richard wants to reach out and freeze the video, just to try and bask in the familiarity of it all. He thinks of their house now, but most importantly about their bed. It was empty, so, so empty. Empty and cold and heavy with reminders of Taron that made Richard seize up every time he took a step inside.

“The worst thing is that we knew there was a chance this would happen. When I was first diagnosed with the cancer and we were told it was bad, really bad, I remember looking at your face and seeing the heartache that I was feeling displayed. I think I’m doing this now, because I honestly don’t know if I’m ever going to get better and I wanna be ready for the worst-case scenario.” Taron drops his gaze to his fingers to pick at loose skin erupting from the side of his thumbnail. “It’s not somethin’ I talk about with you because the thought of leaving you behind is slowly killing me, probably faster than the cancer.” He looks back up and blinks, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

Richard shuffles in his chair and attempts to swallow past the ball of nails lodged in his throat.

“I’m saying this now, because I know there’s no way I’ll say it to you before I go.” Taron points aggressively at the lens, his furrowed would-have-been-eyebrows capturing the entire screen. “If you don’t allow yourself to find happiness when I’m no longer here, I’ll come back and haunt the shit out of you. Just because I’m not going to get the chance to enjoy a long life does not fuckin’ mean you can’t either. I’m your dead boyfriend and that’s the way it’s gonna stay.”

“Husband.” Richard mutters aloud. “I married ya’ beautiful arse.” The letters taste foreign on his tongue.

Taron quietens down into stewing torment. He sniffs and gives a long, unflinching wink at the camera. Richard can’t breathe.

“I know you’re feeling lost, and numb.” He nods, and Richard throws his head back to laugh coldly. He didn’t have a _fucking clue_. “You still have our family, Madden. You’ve still got me Mum, and Dad, and the _Rocketman_ boys, and your lot. It’s okay to feel like everything’s fading away because I’m the person that brought colour to your world, or whatever Shakespeare shit I know you said at my funeral, but you’ll get better.” 

Taron trails off, and when he speaks again he sounds on the verge of breaking down. His cheeks flush with emotion. “It’s okay.” He whispers, and wipes away a stray tear that’s escaped his lashes. “You’re okay. I promise.”

Richard shakes his head adamantly and slips his own eyes closed to cling on to the last bit of strength he had left over from the funeral. 

“Cheers for sticking by me through all the shit. Cheers for not treating me like an invalid, even when I was exhausted. Cheers for seeing me- Taron- instead of the disease. Cheers for not referring to me as aggressive cancer, like some people do. Oh, yes, Taron? He’s the one who’s probably dying.” Taron looks so gutted; devastated from internal fire and external arson from those who were ready to give up too soon. His expression evens out into a blank canvas and Richard yearns to scoop him out of the screen and start again.

Then, Taron’s phone starts ringing. He drags his eyes away from Richard’s and accepts the call with a worried and tired grimace.

“Hey. Watcha’ need?”

It goes silent as the person on the other end of the phone answers. Taron proceeds to nod; it was a habit of his, to gesture ferociously whilst on the phone even though he couldn’t be seen. Richard’s lips quirk upwards, juxtaposing the tears still cascading down his carved cheekbones. 

“Uh huh.”

Silence.

“That’s okay. You didn’t wake me.”

Taron looks up to stare directly into the camera, into the screen, into Richard’s soul. His breath catches in his chest as his husband’s face dramatizes into a raw smile that he hadn’t seen in months. The smile sticks for a second until:

“O’course. I’ll see you at half-past?”

And Richard’s world comes crashing down around him for the third time.

That was _him_. It was him, on the other end of the phone. This video was taken the night before that fucking hospital visit, when the doctors had sat them down and told them that the tumours were growing and they were concerned it was uncontrollable. He was watching the last time his handsome, generous, talented, ambitious, _golden-fuckin’-hearted_ love was truly himself.

Taron keeps his gaze firmly on the centre of the camera lens. Peace settles on his features, like acceptance. Acceptance: that his time as Richard’s better half was coming to an end. 

“Hey. I love you.”

The vulnerability in Taron’s eyes was so clear, it was blinding. Richard draws in a shaky breath through a sudden sob, and forces his eyes to stay open, on Taron, as his chest collapses in wrenching gasps. 

He knows that in the video, he’s saying it back. Taron’s face tells him as much. The Welshman was smirking contently, even though there was enough sadness radiating in his eyes to sink a ship. But it’s not enough. He needs to hear it again.

“I love you too, T.” Richard tells the animated ghost portraying the love of his life. His voice catches all the way through and it’s hoarse from crying, but the words hang heavy in the air. Still, reachable, honest.

Taron bites his lip on an inhale, and steadies himself through a shudder. He blinks, once, twice, and Richard explodes.

“Night.”

He throws one last glance at the lens, reaches forwards over the top of the camera and the screen shrinks to black.


End file.
